ly, the evening letters never reached the Manor until between
eight and half-past. Mrs. Bertram and her daughters dined at seven. They
were the only people in Northbury who ate their dinner at that
aristocratic hour; tea between four and five, and hot, substantial and
unwholesome suppers were the order of the day with the Northbury folk.
_Very_ substantial these suppers were, and even the Rector was not
proof against the hot lobster and rich decoctions of crab with which his
flock favored him at these hours.

For the very reason, however, that heavy suppers were in vogue at
Northbury, Mrs. Bertram determined to adhere to the refinement of a
seven-o'clock dinner. Very refined and very simple this dinner generally
was. The fare often consisting of soup made out of vegetables from the
garden, with a very slight suspicion of what housekeepers call stock to
start it; fish, which meant as often as not three simple but fresh
herrings; a morsel of meat curried or hashed would generally follow; and
dessert and sweets would in the summer be blended into one;
strawberries, raspberries or gooseberries from the garden forming the
necessary materials. Cream did not accompany the strawberries, and the
rich wine in the beautiful and curiously-cut decanters was placed on the
table for show, not for use.

But then the dinners at the Manor were so exquisitely served. Such
napery, such china, such sparkling and elegant glass, and such
highly-polished plate. Poor little Clara, the serving-maid, who had not
yet acquired the knack of telling a lie with _sang froid_
absolutely trembled, as she spread out her snowy table-cloths, and laid
her delicate china and glass and silver on the board.

"It don't seem worth while," she often remarked to the cook. "For what's
an' erring? It seems wicked to eat an' erring off sech plates as them."

"It's a way the quality have," retorted Mrs. Masters, who had come from
London with the Bertrams and did not mean to stay. "They heats nothing,
and they lives on _sham_. Call _this_ soup! There, Clara, you'll be
a sham yourself before you has done with them."

Clara thought this highly probable, but she was still young and
romantic, and could do a great deal of living on make-beliefs, like many
other girls all the world over.

As the Bertrams were eating their strawberries off delicate Sevres
plates on the evening of the day when Mr. Ingram had disclosed the
parentage of poor Beatrice Meadowsweet, the postma